by G. D. Abson
‘I said “Get off!”’ She lashed out with her right foot, stabbing the heel at his face.
The gopnik caught her leg easily, his fingers encircling her ankle.
‘Not here Stas.’
He turned his head. While he was distracted she crossed her legs, locking her muscles to keep them together. He lifted her dress and she lashed out with her hand, digging her nails into his cheek. His fist caught her jaw, knocking her head against the wall. There was little strength behind it though, and she felt no more than dazed.
The gopnik pulled down his tracksuit pants to reveal pale, hairless legs. ‘Open up, messy girl,’ he said, oblivious to a trickle of blood on his cheek.
A deep shiver settled inside her. The muscles in her legs were cramping.
A car horn sounded close by and she saw him hesitate.
‘Dima?’ he hissed. ‘Dima? You pussy. Where are you?’
He pulled up his tracksuit bottoms one-handed, his penis solid and twitching inside, then took a phone from his pocket. He turned it over in his hands and she heard the artificial camera sound as he aimed it at her. There were more clicks but it was fine, he could take his porn pictures because he was going to crawl back under his rock soon.
‘Stas,’ Dima hissed from the shadows, ‘someone’s coming.’
‘Yeah, alright.’ He trotted away.
She pulled up her torn underwear then grabbed her handbag.
‘Shit,’ she said, putting her palms on the brick wall to steady herself as she got to her feet.
‘Are you alright?’ a voice asked.
Zena pulled her dress down in a single jerky movement then looked up to see jeans and a black leather jacket over a white work shirt.
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, wondering how long he’d been there.
She picked up her purse and looked inside.
‘Oh no,’ she said aloud.
It was empty except for her ID and the keys to her apartment. She guessed the gopnik had left them behind so she wouldn’t be forced to go to the police. At least he’d been too stupid to steal her watch, she thought, trying to be upbeat – her Tag Heuer was worth enough to keep him in Jaguar for the rest of his stunted life.
She’d been planning to spend summer in the city but now realised it was a stupid idea to be hundreds of kilometres from anyone who gave a damn about her. Although she didn’t feel so drunk any more it still took a moment of squinting to make out the tiny hands on the watch’s numberless dial. It was quarter past two; late, but not too late. There was time to go back to her apartment, catch some sleep, then find an evening flight to Stockholm where she would surprise her father with a late-night call from Arlanda Airport. She would insist they went on holiday to a familiar place, maybe Cap Ferrat, and she would learn to be less fucking stupid.
‘You want a lift?’
She’d forgotten he was there, and looked up to see the man’s greying hair and lines etched in his broad face. He didn’t look like the type of guy to get in a car with, but who was she to judge? Besides, what choice did she have when those gopnik pieces of shit had left her without a single rouble?
‘Please.’
The man pulled out a key fob and pressed a button. Ten metres away, orange indicators flashed on a black Range Rover Sport and the interior lit up to show pale green leather seats. She headed for his car, willing herself to walk in a straight line. After a few strides, she noticed he wasn’t with her. Putting a hand on the wall to steady herself, she turned to watch him stoop, then grab the half-empty bottle of Putinka from the pavement.
He jogged up to her. ‘You must be a foreigner to leave good drink behind.’
She ignored his hint of a question. Last Thursday, she’d watched the end of a debate on TV about the consequences if Sweden joined NATO. The planted audience were vile; they spoke of squashing, destroying, and nuking. She could almost taste their hatred.
At least the man was making a show of being chivalrous, stepping past her to pull the door open. She gave him a tight-lipped smile as she climbed in to let him know she appreciated the gesture. Getting into a car with a stranger at this time of the morning wasn’t stupid, it was fucking stupid, she knew that, but it wasn’t any worse than wandering the streets alone.
He tossed the vodka bottle onto the seat behind her then went to the driver’s side. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with the seatbelt.
‘Here,’ he said, leaning over to get the strap into the buckle. Their fingers touched and she pulled her hand away.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered under her breath as he started the car.
They drove in silence for a moment then she turned to him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, thinking of how close she had come to being raped.
‘That’s alright, Zena,’ he replied.
Chapter 2
Natalya Ivanova was sure the woman in the white and purple checked headscarf was holding out. She watched her carefully with the eyes of a practised interrogator. ‘What do you mean?’
The woman shrugged, giving little away. ‘I mean gone.’
‘All gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Parmesan? The real stuff from Italy? I heard you had some.’
Natalya stared at her assembled vegetables and tin cans bunched up at the end of the tiny conveyor belt, wondering if she should make borscht instead of white bean soup, or perhaps she could use another cheese but she wasn’t a cook and liked to stick close to recipes. It was a special occasion too – giving up and ordering pizza wasn’t an option.
‘Still gone.’
Natalya pulled out her wallet, unintentionally revealing her ID card.
‘You menti?’
She nodded, unoffended by the slang for the police that wasn’t exactly respectful but everyone used.
‘What type?’ the woman asked. ‘Militia?’
Natalya caught sight of her tired face in a reflection off the meat counter. The whole afternoon had been wasted on Bolshoi Prospekt interviewing a Svetlana Alkhimovich who had been admitted to Pokrovskaya City hospital with fractures of the left cheek and eye socket. Her husband and likely assailant, Arkady, radiated hostility when she made him stand beyond the perimeter of his wife’s bed. Through a gap in the plastic curtain, Natalya saw him eyeing up a nurse as he leant against the cradle of an oxygen cylinder; an unlit cigarette perched in his orange-stained fingers. She was tempted to step out and light it for him just to see if he combusted, but the brute wasn’t worth dying for. Instead, she gave Svetlana Alkhimovich the addresses of the few women’s refuges that served the city. In her experience, the poor woman had a fight or two left in her before the violence reached a climax and she saved herself – if it wasn’t too late then.
It was also clear from the outset that the injuries weren’t bad enough for her to intervene. Arresting Mrs Alkhimovich’s husband was a joke when her superiors insisted on releasing domestic violence suspects after the statutory three hours’ administrative detention – the woman had to be seriously hurt or dead before a criminal case was created. The experience had left her feeling depressed.
‘The militia became the regular police five years ago. They are the ones you see with stations in each district.’
The woman scanned her groceries. ‘And that’s what you do?’
Natalya stifled a yawn. ‘No, I work for the Criminal Investigations Directorate, we cover the whole of Piter and only deal with serious crimes.’
‘How interesting.’
‘I used to think so, now I’m just trying to make bean soup before the government bans beans.’
The woman laughed nervously then addressed a rough-bearded man in a foreign language that Natalya figured was Uzbek or Kyrgyz. He left the small shop through a bead-curtained back door then re-emerged clutching a wheel of Parmesan the shape of a small millstone. She saw ‘Parmigiano-Reggiano’ stencilled on the rind of the cheese and a less convincing ‘Made in Belarus’ sticker applied to its plastic cover.
‘How much do you want?�
�� the woman asked.
‘How much is it?’
‘Eight thousand a kilo.’
Natalya let out a low whistle. ‘I’m not that type of police either.’
The woman shook her head at the bearded man, and he retreated with a rattle of the bead curtain.
Her husband Mikhail, who was also a senior detective in the Criminal Investigations Directorate, was frequently amused by her idealism. Undoubtedly, he would have seized the Parmesan as a contraband item then presented it to her. She thought, ruefully, that his approach made a lot more sense sometimes; judging by the snoring, his conscience didn’t bother him too much either.
Inside her apartment block, she dumped her shopping on the lift’s mosaic tiles then pressed a button to send it to the third floor; getting out before the doors closed. Like many in the city’s pre-Revolution buildings, the lift had been added as an afterthought and couldn’t be trusted to transport anything that wanted to stay alive.
As she climbed the marble stairs, she thought of her grand, high-ceilinged apartment with its view of the stone lions on Lviny Bridge. It wasn’t the type of place two detectives on meagre salaries could afford, but it had been made possible by Mikhail’s mother, Violka, who died of pneumonia brought on by early-onset Alzheimer’s. The money had come as a shock considering the old bird had a reputation for being as tight as a tree sparrow; nevertheless, her fifteen million roubles had bought the three-bedroom apartment, and thanks to the property bubble, its value was increasing by more than their combined incomes.
One bedroom was reserved for her stepson, Anton. The arrangement with Mikhail’s ex-wife, Dinara, had been for alternate weekends but he had just turned eighteen and was as constant as a cat, often arriving late when he fancied a change of scene. The third bedroom had been kept clear. With the low life expectancy of the average Russian male, Mikhail knew his biological clock was ticking and wanted a child with her before it was too late. At thirty-eight, she was also approaching the age where having a baby could be difficult. Being childless didn’t bother her particularly when, after nearly two decades in the police, she had learnt to smother her maternal instincts. Nevertheless, she had been surprised by the ease and speed with which Anton had broken through her natural reserves. No doubt there were explanations that a therapist could uncover but sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, and Anton was just a bright, sweet, funny, boy who she had grown to love.
She dumped her shopping on the kitchen floor then went into the bathroom to take a quick shower. Naked, she appraised herself using the mirrored back of the door and saw more grey hairs in the reddish-brown that she’d need to address soon by dyeing or denial. She put her hands on her hips and tried to tense her stomach only to see faint lines appear. Her body was still slim, though it was more due to neglect than the gym that cost nineteen thousand roubles a year for her non-attendance. She pulled off her underwear then climbed into the shower.
Her hair was still damp after rushing to get dressed. In the kitchen she discovered an old Parmesan rind in the freezer and did a little jig before dropping it whole into the bean soup. Next she retrieved one of the few inherited items from her mother: a steel rolling pin. She took some chilled dough from the fridge, tore it in half and started pressing one of the lumps to make a flat sheet.
She heard the door followed by the sound of shoes being kicked off in the hallway. Mikhail appeared; out of habit he opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Ochakovo. He twisted off the cap before downing half the bottle.
‘Don’t I get a welcome?’
‘Sorry, Angel.’ He put his free arm around her waist and kissed her on the mouth.
Mikhail tasted of beer but she didn’t mind.
‘How was your day?’ he asked.
‘Better now it’s the weekend. This morning I overheard Rogov referring to me as The German to some new recruits.’
Mikhail grinned. ‘Well, he is an insolent bastard – you have to hand it to him.’
After the Soviet Union collapsed, her father had taken a job as an administrator on a cultural exchange programme in Hannover. She had loved Germany instantly but it didn’t take her mother long to feel uncomfortable with her new life and start complaining about everything, from the language and endless varieties of toothpaste in the supermarkets, to the openness with which any subject could be discussed, including sex and religion. Four years later, when Natalya was sixteen, her mother decided they should all go home. Her father refused, as did her sister, Klavdiya, who at eighteen was old enough to decide her own fate. At the insistence of both her parents, Natalya unhappily returned to Russia with her mother, splitting the family in two. Her father and Klavdiya were now German citizens and she kept in contact regularly, trying to see them at least once a year. Though she was no more German than Rogov, there was something to his insinuations: the more time she spent in Hannover, the more foreign she felt when she returned.
He pointed the neck of his Ochakovo at her. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks, I’m on call.’
‘OK, I’m going to get changed.’
She looked at him properly, noticing the grey-blue suit that perfectly matched his eyes and complemented his black hair. Naked, she knew Mikhail was a few kilos overweight but his frame was big enough to take it and the buttoned-up suit smoothed out his belly, making it flat to outward appearances.
‘You look nice.’
‘Day in court.’ He took another swig from the bottle.
‘How was it?’
‘Dull. Did you hear about Colonel Vasiliev?’
‘Yeah, he’s retiring. It’s the worst kept secret in the department.’
Mikhail shrugged with his mouth. ‘Well, Rogov told me a new major started today. Some prick called Dostoynov. Before you ask, I already know he’s a prick because he’s ex-FSB…Vasiliev has put him in my office.’
‘What’s does that mean?’
Mikhail did the mouth shrug again though she suspected it was more to hide his feelings than to signal that he didn’t care. Colonel Vasiliev had a reputation, much like the President’s, of pitting his subordinates against each other and awarding the victor the spoils. The prize in this case was control of the Directorate and the only person with the rank to challenge the new major was Mikhail. There was only one snag – if Mikhail got the top job she would have to transfer to another department; it was against regulations to have a supervisory role over a spouse.
He swigged some more of the Ochakovo. ‘How was your day – apart from Rogov?’
His eyes flickered momentarily in her direction – she could tell he wasn’t interested and decided not to bore him. ‘Don’t ask.’
She laid the sheet of dough over a pelmeni mould.
‘What are you cooking?’
‘Bean soup and dumplings.’
‘Why? We could get a take-out.’
‘Anton.’ She took out a teaspoon and scooped chopped pork and beef from a frying pan before depositing it in an indentation on the mould. She started on another one.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s staying with us tonight.’ She dropped it in the mould and took another from the pan. Thirty more to go.
‘So? You don’t normally bother.’
‘He’s bringing his new girlfriend – I put it on the calendar last week. Please tell me you remembered.’
Mikhail pressed his lips together in a mock apology. ‘I still don’t know why you bother.’
She knew the reason – in all likelihood, Anton was the closest she would get to a child of her own and she intended to take her stepmother duties seriously.
She turned away from the mould and put floury hands on her hips ‘OK, if you can tell me her name I’ll let you off.’
‘What is this?’ He took another swig to cover his embarrassment but she saw through it.
‘You lose. It’s Anna.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s right.’
‘You lose again, her name’s Tanya, and they’ll be he
re soon.
‘Wear something nice,’ she said to Mikhail’s retreating back.
She returned to the pelmeni, wishing she’d bought pizza instead, then heard the key in the door.
‘Anton?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
She waited for another voice.
‘Tanya’s not here.’ Anton’s head appeared; he was slim and handsome with close-cut hair that was just too long to be a skinhead’s. He fixed her with the brown doe eyes he’d inherited from his mother; annoyingly, Dinara was beautiful.
‘But she’s still coming, right?’
He shuffled in his socks; his arms behind his back. ‘There’s stuff going on at home, her parents are divorcing…What’s for dinner?’
‘Don’t change the subject. When did Tanya tell you this?’
‘What, is this some kind of interrogation?’
She glared at him. ‘Just tell me how long you’ve known so I can decide what object to beat you with.’
‘Wait, I can prove my innocence.’
‘OK,’ she said, picking up the steel rolling pin and tapping the end into an open palm to make a slapping noise, ‘but if you lie to me I’ll kill you.’ She offered a mock-menace scowl. ‘You won’t be the first.’
Anton had one arm behind his back; he brought it forward: ‘She gave me this for you – eleven red roses. She told me to say how sorry she is.’
Mikhail returned to deposit the empty beer bottle. He was wearing a pair of white boxers and his fresh shirt had all the buttons undone. ‘What’s this about innocence?’
‘Tanya’s not coming.’
‘At least you told me before I put a tie on.’
‘So trousers weren’t your first thought?’ Turning to Anton she said, ‘You made me cook so I’m going to make you eat until I hear your stomach tearing.’ She fixed him with a bright smile.
Anton groaned then ran a hand over his stubbly hair. ‘There’s something I need to tell you both. It’s bad.’
‘Is she pregnant?’ Natalya asked. ‘Please tell me you’re using something.’
Mikhail stared at Anton. ‘What is it?’ he growled.
She studied her stepson’s face, reading reticence. ‘Let’s talk about it later,’ she said, knowing Mikhail was calmer after dinner.
